


We Will Revel in the Devil's Fen

by spirallings



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Genderfluid Character, Halloween, Mild Language, Minor Violence, Original Character(s), Samhain, Snark, misogynistic language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-13 02:22:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4504206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spirallings/pseuds/spirallings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>...if never more again.</i>
</p>
<p>"All Hallow's Eve," Micheal R. Burch.</p>
<p>Pitch Black thrives and drinks in the fear and adrenaline of Halloween Night, and he follows a group of foolish teenagers into a cemetery, preparing to give them a little scare for their mischief. He loves this night.</p>
<p>But it is not <b>his</b> night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Will Revel in the Devil's Fen

 

That Halloween, the night was cold, wet, and the fog was thick and hovered a foot above the ground. The time was nearly eleven, and all young children were safe and warm in their homes with their families, bags and pillows full of candy laid at their bedside or poured out on the table. Some children had already begun sorting them out by size, color, and type, others had not even begun. Many were asleep, and there were few children with their parents, siblings, or baby-sitters straggling through the streets for that one final round of houses before going home.

 

The lights inside homes were being turned off, the lights on the front doors being turned on, others left off. Those few running about the small town were teenagers trying to cause mischief and play tricks before the night was done, and some college aged youths having a smoke in the park, sharing beer and drinks, talking on the porch and eating left over candy or watching horror films, cozied up on their couch. Then there were those that were clambering over the walls of the cemetery, pulling each other over the wall and landing on their feet onto the soft, wet grass.

 

Their flashlights flickered through the graveyard, glinting between the gravestones, and their snickers and laughters full of nervous excitement echoed through the resting place of the dead.

 

Pitch smiled and, hands folded behind his back, strode into the cemetery, the shadows letting him slip underneath the iron gates.

 

He heard the teenagers running about the graveyard and gave a sigh of content.

 

Oh, how he loved Halloween.

 

The one night of the year in which he thrived without consequence.

 

Mortals were such strange creatures.

 

They warned their children of the monster under the bed, in the closet, the hands that clawed their way out of the shadows when their children went to sleep at night, only to tell them as they grew up that there was no such thing as that monster under their bed. That there was nothing to be afraid of. That he did not exist.

 

But then, one night of the year, film after film full of cheap thrills and meaningless scares were sought after night after night, and children would best each other over who had the scariest costume. Monsters walked amongst each other that one night, witches, ghouls, vampires, werewolves, the man with a machete and a ghost mask, all sorts of creatures roamed the night and played with shadows. They drank in the adrenaline and the rush of power and thrill it gave them.

 

One night of the year, Pitch delighted himself with their love of fear and was almost drunk with it.

 

How he loved this holiday.

 

And oh, how he loved to scare those foolish youths who thought they could simply play about a graveyard and attempt to face the ghosts and the spirits of those who’d left the world behind and now lived beneath the earth.

 

Humming thoughtfully to himself, he stroked at his chin and a slow smile stretched on his thin lips.

 

_How shall I frighten them tonight?_ He thought

 

Perhaps a noise that resembled that of a moan of agony or pain, the sound of footsteps that belonged to no one crunching against branches and soft soil, the sensation of a shuddering breath against their necks, already puckered with anticipation and anxiety. Or perhaps a shadow the size and shape of a man or a woman, or a small child, a shadow that moved slowly towards them.

 

All were such tempting ideas. It was difficult to choose only _one_.

 

A sharp grin curled on his lips, and he bent his fingers and raised his hands. He was about to snap his fingers and urge his darling shadows into the shape he desired (the figure and shape of a young girl who’d been murdered by her own father, so the story went), and his yellow-gold eyes gleamed in the darkness--

 

The shadows about him shifted and curled around his ankles, holding him in place, and he could not move his wrist. A sliver of darkness netted around his hand.

 

“You are supposed to say ‘trick or treat’ first, dear.”

 

A voice like the whispers of youths who hide in the shadows of basements and cupboards purred in his ear.

 

He could feel the cool breath against the back of his neck and he let out a sigh of aggravation. It was difficult to not roll his eyes.

 

“Good evening, Samhain.”

 

A giggle.

 

The shadows clutching his ankles and his wrist slithered back into the darkness.

 

“While I do appreciate you pronouncing my name correctly, as you always do, just call me Sam, dear. Easier for the small ones to remember. We have known each other long enough.”

 

A faint half-smile twitched on Pitch’s lips and he twisted to look over his shoulder.

 

Orange eyes, the eyes of the Jack O’Lanterns children carved in early to mid-October and insides lit with candles, glittered and bore through the darkness.

 

Pitch sighed.

 

“I should have expected to run into you,” he muttered.

 

Another laugh, like the echoes and heartbeats of the bodies under their feet.

 

Pitch could still hear the teenagers talking and telling ghost stories of grisly murders in the distance, sitting on top of a large coffin shaped gravestone. Then, he heard a low growl and saw a large shape in the darkness, then the glowing green of eyes like hellfire.

 

“Oh, shush, shush, love.” The voice chided and Pitch heard the growling turn questioning before becoming content and satisfied. “It is only our dear Nightmare Prince, no need to be hasty.”

 

_Nightmare King_ , Pitch thought savagely. _I am a_ ** _king_**.

 

Spirits above, did he detest being spoken to as if he was a child by those orange eyes.

 

Giving a final scratch behind the wiry furred ears, fingers fell away and a bare foot stepped out of the shadows, soundless against the wet grass, and Sam gave a toothy grin towards the Boogeyman. Shadows fell away from skin the color of candlelight and hair the color of sacrificial blood, and the large wolfish creature walked by the spirit’s side, lips curled backwards into a snarl, its hellfire eyes narrowed and glowing in the darkness. The Cú Sidhe kneaded its claws into the ground and only hushed its growl when Sam scratched behind its ears and stroked at its wiry fur.

 

Sam cocked their head at Pitch and smiled. “You really should have expected me, dear. This is my night, after all.”

 

“It is not as though we see each other every year, Sam,” Pitch said smoothly. “You seem to appear only when you wish, and you know that it is my night as well.”

 

Sam raised a thick eyebrow and chuckled, the sound of hollow bones rattling together. “ _Your_ night? Dear, it is only ‘your’ night because I allow you to play during **my** night. Please do keep that in mind.”

 

Their orange eyes gleamed and hardened and Pitch saw the shadows begin to twist around the spirit, coiling around them like a beloved, seeming to purr and croon at Sam, and Pitch felt a fresh wave of both admiration and dislike towards Sam.

 

For such an old being, they had such a young face, the face of a youth in their early twenties, and Pitch detested it.

 

Pitch disliked that cheeky smile with too much teeth and promised tricks and troubles that reminded him all too much of the winter sprite whose laughter haunted him and made his ashen skin prickle.

 

How they hadn’t met yet, Pitch did not know. He was grateful for it.

 

He did not want to imagine what two spirits who made fun their first priority in all things could get up to together.

 

Although, Sam did have a particularly different brand of fun they enjoyed from his greatest annoyance.

 

Pitch only gave a hum and adjusted the low collar of his cloak. “I don’t think you’ll ever let me forget, Sam. As I recall, you make it a goal of yours to remind me of it _every time_ we cross each other’s paths.” He didn’t bother hiding the annoyance curling into his tone.

 

Sam only shrugged casually and perched on a headstone, feet left dangling and bare and swayed their legs back and forth. Pitch’s yellow eyes flickered towards the black marks that knotted and curled all the way up the spirit’s legs, disappearing into the hem of Sam’s robes. Matching marks littered the spirit’s arms, bare and unfeeling of the cold night air. Sam’s fingers tapped against the stone and orange eyes lifted to yellow and Pitch looked away.

 

Sam’s mouth curled upwards.

 

The Nightmare King resisted the urge to give an aggravated sigh. Well, it was more than evident that Sam wasn’t going anywhere, might as well keep them mildly entertained.

 

“What are you doing here, Sam?” He asked cooly, making a seat out of the shadows because he was sure this was going to be a while.

 

The Cú Sidhe settled underneath Sam’s feet by the headstone and the spirit stroked at its fur with their toe. Pitch was used the glowing gold-yellow of his Nightmares, not the green hellfire of the black dog’s eyes, and would deny having ever felt unnerved by them and the sheer age of them. The black dog apparition stared at him and never looked away. Sam did not seem terribly bothered. They only seemed amused, and Sam laughed at Pitch’s question.

 

“Dear, it’s Halloween, and there are young children afoot and causing mischief in a cemetery, telling each other ghost stories to scare one another into seeing a shadow that looks like a person, right at the time of the witching hour.” Sam’s grin was toothy and sharp. “How could I _not_ be here?”

 

A dry expression formed on Pitch’s ashen face. “Is that your only reason?”

 

An owl hooted and flapped its wings in the distance, flying between the bared branches. Sam cupped their chin in their palm and drummed fingers against their knee. The smile broadened.

 

“I was also curious about what you would do to those children, as you are so wont to play with on this night.”

 

“Then why did you stop me?” Yellow eyes narrowed.

 

The shadows of the graveyard curled around Sam’s neck, arms, hands and ankles lovingly, and Sam pet at them. “They’d done nothing to deserve a trick just yet.” The spirit gave a forlorn sigh and pulled a wrapped candy out of the darkness. “Hasty, always so _hasty_ with you, Pitch.”

 

The sound of the candy being unwrapped was grating to Pitch’s ears. “Then what do you suggest I do, Sam?” He said, sardonic and not without bite. The spirit was not phased and chewed on the candy. It smelled like chocolate.

 

Sam smiled and glowing orange flickered towards the adolescents, huddled together with only two flashlights lit, laughing softly amongst themselves. Pitch could smell the traces of a mounting fear, one moreso than the rest; a younger child than the others, nervous and shy, but eager.

 

Sharp teeth gleamed in the night. “Wait.” Sam swallowed the chocolate candy and wiped the smear of the sweet from the corner of their mouth. “Did I not tell you that centuries ago?” Sam sighed, resting their chin in their palm again. “Then again, you never **were** one for patience.”

 

Sam said them fondly, full of nostalgia and memory, and Pitch felt a thin smile twist on his lips. Oh, he remembered it well. He remembered that darkness during the witching hour of the first of November, a pair of orange eyes gleaming in the shadows, calming the eyes glowing yellow, red, hellfire, all sorts of shades, hearing their growls and the coils of the twisting shadows. He remembered those eyes looking at him with bemusement and interest.

 

_Sloppy_ , Sam called his form then. _A master of shadows ought to know better. Don’t you know, they_ ** _love_** _the anticipation_.

 

“I feel as if I have been patient enough,” Pitch said, reclining in his shadowy chair.

 

A thick brow raised. Sam hummed with thought, eyes always flickering towards the group of teenagers. “I suppose you have, considering I have not seen nor heard lick or hide of you since easter of three years ago.” Sam grinned. “You’ve been awfully quiet.”

 

Pitch’s yellow eyes flickered with menace and he folded his hands in his lap, his jaw tightening. His tone was remarkably cooler when he spoke, “I was resting.”

 

_Of course they know_.

 

Sam hummed, drawing out another piece of candy and tossing it into their mouth. “I should hope so,” the spirit said neutrally. “They put up quite the fight, indeed.”

 

_You underestimated them_ , the spirit did not say. 

 

How **sloppy**.

 

Pitch’s fingers tightened and a familiar bitterness collected on the bottom of his mouth. “Perhaps if I’d not been alone, I would not have needed to rest or gone into hiding at all.”

 

The smile slipped off of Sam’s mouth. The Cú Sidhe’s lips curled into a snarl, revealing sharp yellow fangs and voices deep in the earth whispered to each other. The shadows around Sam coiled tight and furiously.

 

“Persistent, aren’t you?” Sam murmured. 

 

The spirit’s eyes were cold and Pitch felt the temperature about the graveyard drop. One teenager pulled her jacket closer to herself, commenting on the cold.

 

Lamplights flickered on and off. The youngest teenager, a young boy, looked up at the lights, eyes wide and alarmed.

 

The Cú Sidhe rose and its growl was only soothed by Sam’s hands brushing along the wiry fur.

 

“You could have helped me,” Pitch said coldly.

 

Sam gave an annoyed sigh. “It’s amazing how centuries pass and it still has not sunk in for you,” they said bitingly. “What goes on between you and the guardians is no business of mine, and I have no interest in intervening in their, or your, affairs. I have told you this hundreds of times, so please, dear, _stop asking_.”

 

The shadows around Pitch shuddered and hissed. “They could have believed in you, too.”

 

Sam shook their head. “I don’t need them to believe in me, Pitch. That is not my purpose, and that is not my duty. You should know this by now.”

 

He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

 

How could a spirit that’d lived for thousands of years in the shadows, in the in-between, neither the land of the living nor the land of the dead, want to remain unseen and invisible? How could Sam be all right with their fate? Their lot in this not-life? How could Sam just sit there, unfettered, _uncaring_?

 

It was infuriating.

 

No matter how many times Sam told him, their orange eyes glowing in the shadows, so bright, ancient, alive but so very cold, Pitch just couldn’t believe that Sam didn’t care. Surely, they had to care, at least a little, after living and not-living for so long, and yet every time he would ask, Sam would look at him with something like a glimmer of pity, like they were looking at a wounded animal beyond help, like a _child_ , and shake their head.

 

And Pitch would be left to stew in his anger and rejection when Sam blew out the last candles of Halloween and faded back into liminal darkness, darkness where even the Nightmare King could not go.

 

Though he supposed that such coldness was befitting of the bringer of the very first frosts.

 

Instead of acting on his old irritations and frustrations by grasping Sam’s neck with his shadows and squeezing tight, pressing down hard onto candlelight skin (knowing all he would hear is their _cackle_ ), he simply sneered.

 

“Don’t gatekeepers get bored every once in a while?” He drawled slowly. “It’d be such a waste of your talents.”

 

“Ooohhh,” Sam cooed, smile fanged and toothy. Their voice was like sickly sweet candy taffy as Sam purred, mocking, “ ** _Baubau_** , you flatter me--”

 

“ _Don’t call me that_.”

 

A snicker.

 

The Cú Sidhe glared at him and with a low growl, lowered to rest its large snout on its front paws, underneath Sam’s feet.

 

“But why would I ever leave my comfortable post when I can simply sit back and enjoy the show while the guardians and the frost child beat your black hosier-clad arse?”

 

He spluttered and Sam nearly fell off of the tombstone from how hard they were laughing.

 

“They are not hosier! They are _trousers!_ ” He snapped, making crows caw at him angrily and burst out of the bare branches of nearby trees. He swat them away and they only shrieked at him louder and flew over the group of teenagers, making them shout, startled.

 

Orange eyes rolled. “Whatever you say, dear.”

 

The fog was growing thicker, rolling along the grass and between the tombstones, the tall obelisks and the mausoleums that littered the old graveyard. The air was getting colder, waiting on a bated breath for the boy who flew along winter winds, snowflakes trailing behind his feet. The teenagers were whispering ghost stories between themselves, grinning in glee at the looks of growing, delightful fright on the faces of their friends.

 

Sam was no longer paying attention to him. Instead, they were watching the group of teenagers, and frowned when one teenager, another young boy, shouted ‘boo!’ in front of the face of another, the youngest boy, making him shriek and fall hard to the ground. None helped him up, wrapped up in their own giddiness and their screeching laughter, aside from a few shamefaced boys and girls, who still did not help him up. He pushed himself up to his feet.

 

The boy who frightened him rolled his eye, toyed with the flashlight, called him a pussy for getting scared so easily and the boy flinched.

 

Orange eyes flared.

 

The boy muttered, adjusting his scarf, that he was going home and left without another word. There was a long pause from the group of teenagers before their ringleader, the one who’d scared the youngest, shrugged and carried on.

 

The boy climbed back over the fence to the graveyard and Sam clambered up, and stood on top of the tombstone. They watched the boy stick his hands in his pockets and walk away, disappearing into the thick of the witching hour fog.

 

Sam’s eyes fell back onto the teenagers.

 

“...On second thought,” they said casually. “Perhaps I should let you have this one.”

 

Sam looked at him and smirked.

 

“I suppose you’ve been patient enough, given them enough suspense. Maybe a good dose of fear shall end their night well.”

 

Pitch’s brows raised and a grin that stretched wide across his cheeks like sharp knives spread.

 

“With pleasure,” he said, standing, and bowed deeply.

 

Sam snorted.

 

Twelve bongs of a great clock that none but they could hear rang through the darkness, and Sam looked up into the scattered stars across the night skies. Sam tucked their hands against the small of their back and the Cú Sidhe stood, hellfire green on its master. Sam glanced down at Pitch and smiled like a Jack O’ Lantern.

 

“That is my cue to go, still Halloween in another time zone, duty calls,” They pat dust out of their robes. “The Dullahan get far too excited around this time of year, curse that Irving,” They sighed, exasperated. Sam dipped their head in goodbye towards the Nightmare King. Then, they smirked. “I shall see you next year, then, Sack Man.”

 

Pitch grit his teeth.

 

“ _SAMHAIN_ \--”

 

Cackling, the Gatekeeper of Halloween melded into shadows and a pair of bright orange eyes glinted at him in the darkness before they blinked out like the last candles being put out before bed.

 

The group of teenagers got quite the fright when the heard the sound of a rattling breath against their necks and the back of their ears, turning to see a dark shape that hadn’t been there before, perhaps like the form of a woman or perhaps a man, standing only yards away. It didn’t move. It only stood. One whispered that it was only some kind of shadow from a tree, or perhaps another tombstone.

 

Then, it moved.

 

They screamed, and Pitch laughed joyously.

 

The boy walking home reached up to his collarbone, adjusted his binder, sighed, scowled and kicked a stray rock. He glared at the ground and kept walking, not hearing the soft patter of feet behind him.

 

_Mreow_.

 

Blinking, he turned around and saw a large pair of green eyes looking up at him.

 

The large back cat’s tail moved back and forth lazily, and its green eyes blinked up at him. There was a white diamond of a spot on its chest. He stared down at it, and the cat meowed again. The cat sat down and the boy smiled. He kneeled down and lowered a hand to let the cat sniff at him. It stood up and walked towards him, then purred loudly when he scratched it underneath his chin.

 

The cat followed him home, and because his mom was allergic to cats, he couldn’t let it inside. But he did leave a small bowl of milk out on the porch. The cat meowed at him gratefully, he smiled, and he went to bed, warm and cozy.

 

The cat drank the milk until there was no more left, licked its lips and cleaned its fur before strutting off away from the house. It crept and melted into the shadows, then leapt onto Sam’s shoulder with a loud meow.

 

Sam grinned as the Cat Sidhe purred and rubbed its side against their cheek, making the gatekeeper chuckle. They stroked at its fur and the Cú Sidhe gave a whining growl for attention. Sam pat at the Cú Sidhe’s head and grinned.

 

“Calm down, love, everyone gets a turn.”

 

The Cú Sidhe whuffed and the Cat Sidhe gave a hiss of reprimand.

 

Sam rolled their eyes.

 

“Come along now--”

 

Lips spread into a scarecrow’s grin.

 

“My night is not over just yet. There’s still so many tricks and treats to give away.”

 

And then, in a shudder of shadows and darkness, Sam was gone.

 

The last Jack O’ Lantern of the lonely little town remained lit until the wick was no more.

 

**Author's Note:**

> i don't know why i wrote this when i have a giant fic to finish that's not even a third of the way done. and it's _august_.
> 
> but, i don't know, i've been thinking a lot about a bunch of the much older holidays, such as the quartet of traditional gaelic festivals surrounding the seasons, and of the four, the one that's changed and adapted to the times the most that is the also the most celebrated is Samhain, now more familiar to us as Halloween. a lot fans associate Pitch with Halloween, which is pretty apt and cool, but i wouldn't call it his holiday. Halloween has a lot of other things going on than just a night of scares. 
> 
> which kinda led me to thinking about the kinda person who would be the personification of Halloween itself, and so Sam was created as my head baby. very, _very_ old, despite appearances, is more of a gatekeeper between the human world and the spirit world of ghosts, the dead, and the fair folk, than an active participant like the guardians or pitch. Sam kinda does their own thing. chaotic neutral and all. also doesn't give a shit about human created binaries.
> 
> yeah, i might have an entire backstory in mind for this character already. shit.
> 
> idk. here's a thing, i guess.


End file.
